


That's How the Light Gets In

by colonel_bastard



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Comfort, Comfort Food, Confessions, Cooking, Drunkenness, Honesty, Intimacy, M/M, Secrets, Trauma, Travel, Trust, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25502416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: They’re deep in the throes of their latest exorcism when he hears that same voice again, a man’s voice, rough and cruel— “Whatcha gonna do, Marky boy? Shoot me?Shoot me?”Tomas closes his eyes and exhales. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s time for him to know.“Marcus,” he says. “I want to ask you about something.”
Relationships: Marcus Keane/Tomas Ortega
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	That's How the Light Gets In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dorinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/gifts).



> set between season one and season two, during that big beautiful nebulous road trip period
> 
> to my prompter: i loved so many different facets of this prompt that i ended up trying to combine as many as i could! i hope you enjoy it! i've loved these characters for years but this was the first fic i've ever written for them and i just want to thank you for the wonderful privilege
> 
> title is taken from the leonard cohen song [anthem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDTph7mer3I): _there is a crack in everything / that's how the light gets in_

-

-

-

It’s still dark outside when Tomas wakes up in an unfamiliar room. There’s the brief, disoriented sensation of falling as he blinks up at a popcorn ceiling that he’s never seen before, his body going tense with vague alarm under a blanket that feels all wrong, too light in weight and too scratchy on his skin. For a moment he’s too confused to even move, but then he hears the low, steady breathing of someone sleeping nearby. When he turns his head he sees Marcus sprawled across the second bed, his back to the wall and his face half-buried in the pillow. That’s the only cornerstone Tomas needs to build the rest of his memory up from the ground. 

The room stays dark all around him while it grows brighter in his mind’s eye, illuminated as it was last night when they first arrived at the extended stay hotel and flicked on the lights just long enough for them to drop their backpacks, kick off their shoes, and find their way into their respective beds. Marcus managed to make a crack about the ugly wallpaper while Tomas pointed out that at least the sheets weren’t stained this time. They were both too drained to do much beyond that; it was a long drive, and an even longer job before it. Between the two of them they haven’t had a full night’s rest in weeks. 

Well, at least one of them is getting to rectify that now.

Tomas doesn’t even bother trying to go back to sleep. He’s always been an early riser by nature— from the second he opens his eyes he’s wide awake, full stop, his body buzzing with the urge to get up and get right to work, eager to be of use as soon as possible. It doesn’t matter if there isn’t any actual work to be done, or if, like right now, it’s so very much earlier than he would have actually liked to rise. By the time he opens his eyes it’s already too late. He’s up; the only question is what he’s going to do about it. 

Slow and careful, Tomas slips out of bed as quietly as he can manage. It’s not an accommodation that he’s used to making, his movements brittle with caution, every rustle of the stiff, over-laundered sheets sounding like an avalanche in the shocking stillness of the pre-dawn room. He’s not used to this rural kind of quiet, either. Even when he lived alone in Chicago he was always surrounded by the car horns and rumbling trains and distant sirens of a crowded, busy city, and their combined absence here creates a vacuum that turns every footfall into a gunshot and every breath into a roar. Tomas keeps one eye on Marcus to watch for a reaction as he goes, but as usual after a successful job he’s out like a light, so far gone that the tempo of his breathing doesn’t so much as flicker even when Tomas stands over him to study his face, marveling at the relaxed set of his mouth and his untroubled brow. The first impulsive spike of jealousy is quickly smoothed over by a conscious pivot to hope, as Tomas chooses to take this as a sign that one day he, too, will be able to finish an exorcism and sleep so well. 

There’s a whisper of sunlight on the horizon as he emerges into the fresh air wearing sweatpants and the same undershirt he’s had on for the past week, the pits and collar ringed with old sweat. It’s long past due for a visit to the laundromat but in the meantime he figures it can’t get any worse than it already is, stained and reeking from all that time spent getting thrown around the room and yelling himself hoarse in the service of the greater good. He never knew it was possible to get so sweaty just from shouting. Then again, he’s never had to shout like someone’s soul depended on it before. Sometimes he’ll look over at Marcus during the call and response and marvel at the sweat pouring off his face, only to feel the sting of salt in his eyes and realize that he must be drenched, too. He supposes that means he’s doing something right. 

After a few cursory stretches at the doorstep, Tomas lopes across the deserted parking lot towards the pickup truck that cost him the last of his personal savings, his scant coffers emptied upon the arrival of the rainiest possible day. A quick rummage in the bed yields the duffel with his running shoes inside, and he sits down on the concrete wheelstop of the adjacent parking space to slip off his black boots and slip into the familiar snug comfort. Marcus teased him when he insisted on bringing them along— _you’re not exactly going to have time for a daily fitness regimen, Tomas_ — but in the end Tomas decided that it would be better to drag them around and never use them at all rather than risk being in a place where he finally had the opportunity and the drive only to be thwarted by his own lack of optimistic foresight. It’s a comforting thought, as he bounces on the balls of his feet to test the tightness of the laces, to know that in even this one small instance, his faith has been rewarded. 

Tomas holds that thought in his heart and lets it fill his weary legs with strength as he takes off across the asphalt. He doesn’t have the path of his old home route to guide him, so instead he runs in the direction of the rising sun. 

\- - -

When he gets back to the suite he finds Marcus in the cramped little kitchen, all wet hair and scrubbed skin and what has to be his last clean shirt, a charcoal henley with the top two buttons undone as if in defiance that he ever had to wear a collar at all. He’s rummaging through the basket of complementary accoutrements that came with the coffee machine, creamers and sugar packets and a few single-serving pouches of grounds in various cloying flavors such as hazelnut and vanilla. At the sound of Tomas coming in he looks up with a wry grimace and pushes the basket away from him like a child who doesn’t want to eat his vegetables. 

“There he is,” he says, turning to lean his hip against the counter. “Was starting to wonder if you got your first good look at this wallpaper in the daylight and made a break for it.”

Tomas obediently glances over to observe the source of the offense— a chaotic tangle of flowers interspersed with large, clumsy butterflies. He’s seen worse, and he’s certain that Marcus must have, too.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he explains, rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the palm of one hand. “And I didn’t want to wake you.” 

Marcus’s teasing expression wanes, his eyes darkening with concern. “You all right?” 

“I’m fine,” Tomas sighs, and means it. “It’s just— it’s so quiet.” He smiles and shakes his head. “You know, when I first moved into my apartment back in Chicago, I thought I would never get used to the sound of that train.” 

“And now it’s like a lullaby,” Marcus intones knowingly. “Puts you right out.”

His use of the present tense makes Tomas’s smile fade, his voice dropping to a murmur. “It did.” 

The unfamiliar jogging route replays in his mind, the way he was obliged to hesitate at every intersection, half-afraid that one wrong turn might mean he’d never be able to find his way back home. It reminded him of a nightmare he once had as a child, running through the halls of a big empty house that never seemed to end, his heart slowly filling with dread. There was nothing sinister about the house itself— nor was there anything sinister about the quiet, sunrise-dappled streets he ran along this morning— the anguish came from the fact that it was not _his_ house, not his streets, not his popcorn ceiling and not his light, scratchy blanket. 

“I’ve always wondered about the people who live by the sea.” Marcus has picked up a packet of caramel-flavored coffee, idly turning it over in his hands. “Seems like all the smashing and crashing would get a bit old.”

Tomas shakes out of his reverie. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I think if you stay someplace long enough, you could get used to just about anything.”

“Maybe so,” Marcus glances up from his study to give Tomas a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t know much about that.”

He returns his attention to the coffee label, casual as always about revealing these little crumbs of his distasteful history, this occasional glimpse of a life half-lived and long-suffered. He never makes a big fuss over it, just peppers them in here and there, sometimes with obvious motive but other times in the midst of a perfectly ordinary conversation like this. In the beginning Tomas was amazed at his candor, at how easily he spoke of such difficult things. That was before he came to recognize the crumbs for what they really were: a smoke screen. 

_They’re deep in the throes of their latest exorcism when he hears that same voice again, a man’s voice, rough and cruel— “Whatcha gonna do, Marky boy? Shoot me? **Shoot me?** ”_

Tomas closes his eyes and exhales. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s time for him to know.

“Marcus,” he says. “I want to ask you about something.”

As far as gentle segues go it’s about as subtle as an exposed snare in the middle of an open path. Marcus sidesteps it easily, ditching the coffee basket to drum his hands impatiently on the countertop, his tone so bright that it brooks no argument. 

“Can you ask it over breakfast? I don’t know about you, but I could really go for a cup of coffee that isn’t blueberry-flavored and two years past its expiration date.” He wrinkles his nose. “Though in this case I think the former explains the latter.”

Tomas hesitates, quickly weighing the pros and cons of insisting on having this conversation right now. At the top of the first list is his own compulsive instinct to take immediate action if there’s even the slightest chance that he might be able to help someone in need. At the top of the second list is the comical rumbling sound that his stomach makes at that exact moment, the undeniable indication that his internal fuel gauge has just clicked to empty. No further calculations required. Tomas sighs and nods his acquiescence. 

“I saw a diner not far from here,” he says. “We can walk or take the truck.” 

“I’ll drive.” Marcus tosses his head towards the bathroom. “You, uh, want a shower first?”

Tomas narrows his eyes in an expression of mock-offense. “Are you telling me that I _need_ a shower?”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness, isn’t it?” Marcus’s grin turns sly. “I thought you priests were supposed to aspire to that sort of thing.” 

“And yet Isaac rejoiced at Jacob’s robes,” Tomas counters as he heads into the bathroom. “ _See, the smell of my son is as the smell of a field which the Lord hath blessed._ ”

His heart leaps with gladness at Marcus’s answering laughter, the sound still bubbling out like a fountain as Tomas closes the door behind him. 

It’s not the worst bathroom they’ve ever had, just small and antiquated, with thin towels and a shower nozzle with water pressure like a squirtgun. Tomas finds their shared bottle of body wash waiting for him in the corner of the tub, the cap still popped open from its first use of the day. As he lathers and scrubs, the air grows thick with the smell of it, clean and crisp and masculine— it smells so much like Marcus that Tomas is almost embarrassed to be standing there naked in its presence, his hands crawling all over his skin in a tiny room filling with steam. 

Afterwards he pauses before the foggy mirror to study his reflection, his fingernails scratching in consideration at the considerable stubble on his chin. It’s been almost two weeks since his last shave. No time to take care of it now— maybe he should just grow a beard. 

\- - -

The diner is full but not crowded, suffused with the ongoing chatter of enough conversations to cancel out the coherency and turn everything into a pleasant hum that doesn’t leave any space for silence. Tomas sinks into the sound like a warm bath, reminded once again of just how much he loves to be surrounded by people. There’s so much noise, so much spirit, so much _life_ — for just a moment he bows his head and closes his eyes, allowing himself to pretend that he’s back among his congregation, smiling and shaking hands with the parishioners he knows and loves. It doesn’t work. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t escape the fact that he doesn’t recognize any of the voices around him. 

Then Marcus’s voice cuts in and drowns out everything else.

“Look at this, look at this—”

Tomas stirs and opens his eyes just as a laminated menu slides across the table and into his downcast field of vision. Then Marcus’s index finger comes into the frame, tapping enthusiastically at the printed column labeled _Appetizers_. 

“They’ve got fried tomatoes on here. Looks like we might be able to cobble together a halfway proper breakfast after all.” 

When Tomas looks up at him, he can tell from Marcus’s face that he knows Tomas was looking back. There’s no judgment, no reprimand— this is just his way of taking Tomas gently by the chin and turning his eyes back towards what lies ahead. Sometimes that might be the daunting sight of an endless road stretching out to an infinite horizon. Other times it’s just breakfast, and this time that’s enough. Tomas clears his throat and makes a show of picking up his own menu, his mouth fixed in a little moue of refusal at Marcus’s suggestion. 

“Speak for yourself,” he sniffs primly. “I am getting pancakes.” 

Marcus tosses his head back to let out one of his big, giddy barks of amusement, then flicks his fingertips to zip his menu back across the table, spinning it in front of him like a record player before stopping it rightside up to resume his consideration. Tomas really is getting the pancakes, so he uses the time to consider Marcus instead, watching those fierce blue eyes skate up and down the pages with the alertness and intensity of someone on a scavenger hunt, determined to find every last item on his list, or at least as many as he can. Tomas doesn’t blame him. After a week spent with only the occasional hasty mouthful to keep them from collapsing, the idea of sitting down to a full, respectable breakfast seems like a borderline hedonistic indulgence. It’s clear that Marcus is not going to squander this opportunity. 

“You know,” Marcus remarks, still scanning the menu. “You really should have worn your collar.” Blue eyes dart up towards Tomas’s bare throat before dropping down to the appetizers again. “Could’ve gotten us a discount.” 

Tomas shifts and tugs at the cuff of his grey sweatshirt sleeve, feeling at once both hopelessly underdressed and blissfully inconspicuous. “I’m off the clock.” He nods at the pot that the server brought when they were first seated. “How’s the coffee?”

Marcus glances over at him with a knowing smile. “Heavenly.” 

When the server comes back around to take their orders, Marcus first opens the exchange by complimenting the pins on their uniform apron, pointing out a depiction of a character that Tomas doesn’t recognize and then delivering a line of dialogue that Tomas assumes comes from the same source. Once the server has been thoroughly charmed, Marcus proceeds to launch into a complex bastardized order that takes the diner’s house breakfast and runs it through a list of substitutions that falls just shy of asking for a tiny Union Jack to be planted in his fried tomatoes, then closes with what must surely be another quote, followed by an affirmation of the server’s uniquely good taste. 

Tomas orders the buttermilk pancakes, as is, plus a side of the breakfast sausage, thank you. 

He puts it off for as long as he can. At first he has the excuse that they shouldn’t get into anything too serious before they’ve had a chance to get some food in them— but once the initial rush of the meal’s arrival has tapered to a steady graze and a suitable amount of coffee has been consumed, Tomas finally reaches the point where he has to admit that he’s stalling. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Still, it might actually be for the best to have it here, with a crowd of witnesses to discourage Marcus from raising his voice and making a scene, plus an unfinished breakfast that Tomas hopes will be enough to keep him from just walking out. 

He hopes. 

“Marcus,” he says, laying down his cutlery with deliberate care. “There is... something we need to talk about.”

“What,” Marcus breezes back without looking up from his plate. “Like the fact that the only tomatoes that get fried in this country are the green ones?”

It’s a weak attempt at deflection, especially for him. Tomas won’t even dignify it with protest, he just sits and waits for Marcus to own up to it, his own face fixed in silent disapproval while Marcus intently stabs his fork into his eggs without ever taking a bite. After a frustrated beat, Marcus sighs and sets the utensil beside his plate, then raises his head to meet Tomas’s eyes.

“All right,” he says. “I’m listening.”

Tomas takes a deep breath and forces his body to relax. Standing at the little pulpit in his brain, he does a quick shuffle of his notecards, skimming over the speech that he wrote over the course of yesterday’s long, long drive. 

“It’s— it’s about something that happened back there in Nebraska. Something that keeps happening.” He looks down and fidgets with the edge of his sleeve, trying to picture the words in his hands. “And if it’s going to keep happening, then— then I think we should talk about it.” Understatement; he clarifies. “We _need_ to talk about it.”

With a burst of effort he raises his head, hoping to see at least some indication that Marcus knows where this is going— but Marcus is a blank slate, his expressive hands tucked under the table and his eyes like frosted glass. If he does know what Tomas is leading towards then he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it, responding with only the slightest nod and a voice that comes out perfectly neutral. 

“Go on.”

The discomfort of being met with such calculated impassivity is only heightened by the fact that Tomas knows it to be the complete opposite of Marcus’s nature. He’s seen this man with his heart on his sleeve, speaking of God and grace with such passion that he ends up as raw and weeping as an open wound, his whole body wrenched by the strength of the emotion moving through him. Now Marcus might as well be carved from stone, his face a cool, impenetrable mask. Tomas takes a moment to admire the unbelievable amount of control that he possesses, but he refuses to be daunted by it. If Marcus wants to make a fortress of himself, then Tomas will just have to climb over the walls. He presses forward.

“Listen,” he says. “The work that we do is so personal. These people we are trying to save, we see them laid bare, all of their fears, all of their— their secrets.” He’s trying to approach this as carefully as he can, keeping all his attention on Marcus as he gets closer and closer to the heart. “But it’s not just them, Marcus. It happens to us, too. In the exorcisms we have performed together, we have heard the demons speak to us in many voices—”

His own voice cuts off abruptly at the change in Marcus’s eyes, a sudden flash as the frosted glass cracks and a splinter of pain shines through, white-hot and blinding. The effect is made all the more harrowing by the fact that his face remains as rigidly impassive as ever, though he can’t hide the strain in his neck, a visible line of tension that rises and runs down to disappear under the collar of his henley. Emboldened by the reaction, Tomas pushes forward, the momentum building up behind him, the words coming faster and clearer.

“They use the voices of people we know, people we _have_ known, to try and provoke an emotional response. You have heard them speak to me in the voice of my grandmother— of Jessica— even my nephew, begging me to come home.” It hurts even just to say it, but he hopes that his own personal catalog will help soften the blow, reminding Marcus that he’s not the only one to have his history used against him in this way. “And I— I have heard the boy, Gabriel— but I have also heard two others. A woman, and a man.”

Marcus has his game face on now, his eyes flat and his mouth turned up at the corner in a smirk of faint amusement. It’s the same cold, confident expression that he wears when the demons make a run at him. Tomas might almost be offended if it didn’t make him so sad. Instead he just grits his teeth and keeps climbing, determined to make it over this hurdle once and for all.

“They are your parents,” he says. “Aren’t they?”

Marcus ratchets the smirk a few clicks wider, the curve deepening from amusement to condescension. “Should have thought that was fairly obvious, yeah.”

Tomas exhales and pushes a hand through his hair, fighting back his mounting frustration. “Look, I understand that this is not easy to talk about, but I think it’s something that I need to know.”

Now Marcus tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “And what is it that you think you need to know, exactly?”

Before Tomas can answer the noise of the diner seems to swell around them, as if everyone decided to raise their voices all at once and remind him that for some godforsaken reason he thought a public restaurant would be the ideal location for what might be one of the most intimate conversations he’ll ever have in his life. He can’t even remember how he justified the decision— he just always has to go for it, whatever _it_ is, whenever he thinks there’s a chance he might be able to help. Well, it’s too late now. He has to finish what he started. 

Clearing his throat, Tomas discreetly leans forward across the table, indicating for Marcus to lean in with him. It’s a gesture towards privacy that Marcus chooses to ignore, leaning back and crossing his arms instead. All Tomas can do is pitch his words between Marcus and the wall, praying not to be overheard.

“You told me... that your father killed your mother in front of you.”

Marcus nods serenely. “That’s right.”

The pause lingers between them, Tomas waiting for an elaboration while Marcus stares back at him, as still as standing water. He won’t even blink. Tomas has no choice but to break the stalemate.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

There’s a quick flash of teeth as Marcus curls his lip in warning. “See, I don’t think you actually need to know that.”

It’s enough to trigger a similar reaction from Tomas, his frustration boiling up to meet Marcus’s intensity as he hisses, “And I think I do!” 

In the next heartbeat he catches himself and drops his gaze to the table, forcing out a deliberate exhale to bring his voice down to a heated whisper.

“Marcus, the things I have heard them say to you—” Tomas squeezes his eyes shut as the words ricochet around inside his skull. “She says that it was all your fault— he asks if you are going to shoot him—”

“They’re demons, Tomas,” Marcus interjects brusquely. “They’ll say anything if they think it’ll get under your skin. That doesn’t make any of it true.”

“But there is some truth, isn’t there?” Tomas looks up to catch his gaze, then almost immediately looks away again, his own scars aching at old memories. “There is always just enough truth to make it hurt.”

In his peripheral vision he sees Marcus offer a mild shrug. “So what if there is?”

“So,” Tomas says, staring down at his hands. “How am I supposed to know what is true and what is a lie?”

Marcus shrugs again, cool and impassive. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Tomas gives him an incredulous look. “It doesn’t—?

“It doesn’t matter because it doesn’t concern you.”

“If it concerns you, it concerns me,” Tomas asserts without hesitation. “That is what it means to be partners.” 

Out of all the tactics and arguments he was ready to try, Tomas never expected to make his breakthrough with just a single word. As soon as he says _partners_ there’s a visible impact on Marcus’s face, the effect spreading out like ripples, his eyes darting away and the unreadable line of his mouth softening into a pained grimace. He doesn’t even try to argue the point, just tightens his crossed arms over his chest and sets his jaw, mute with chagrin. Tomas softens, too, placing both hands on the table with their palms up and leaning in to extend them towards Marcus in offering. 

“Please, Marcus,” he says. “If I don’t know when they are lying to you, how will I be able to help you?”

Marcus keeps his arms locked over his heart, his eyes flicking over in acknowledgment of the offer.

“I don’t need your help, Tomas,” he says, low and fierce. “Not with that.”

Undeterred, Tomas leaves his hands on the table, open and waiting. Marcus studies them from a safe distance, his head cocked like a wild animal considering food being offered to him by a stranger. When he shifts his arms Tomas thinks he might be about to reach out in response— but Marcus just picks up his coffee instead, taking a calm, contemplative sip before he sets it aside and reclaims his fork, turning his attention back to what’s left of his breakfast. 

With a disappointed sigh Tomas slumps back in his seat, his hands retreating across the table until they slip off the edge and drop into his lap. A glance at his remaining pancakes confirms that his own appetite is long gone, so he just watches the eggs get scraped and shoveled around on Marcus’s plate, wishing he had the courage to simply reach across the space between them to take hold of Marcus’s hands and keep him still.

“You know it’s going to keep happening,” he says, his voice tired but certain. “They are going to keep using this against you and I am going to keep hearing it. And after a while, once I have heard them tell it enough, I will know which parts of it change and which parts stay the same.” He sighs and nudges his fork into a parallel with his knife on the table. “I am going to get the whole picture sooner or later, Marcus, whether you like it or not. And maybe— maybe I just want to hear it from you first.”

Silence. If it weren’t for the ongoing chatter of the diners around them there would be no sound at all except for the pensive scraping on Marcus’s plate— after a long, tense beat, that stops too, leaving only the murmur of the oblivious crowd. Marcus reaches for his coffee, retracts his hand without ever touching the cup. He frowns and scrapes at his eyebrow with his thumbnail. It occurs to Tomas that he’s not the only one who isn’t used to making accommodations. 

Maybe that’s as far as they were supposed to get today.

The server drops off the check. Marcus carefully counts out the payment from their last supplement of petty cash, then adds the biggest bill they’ve got left for the tip. 

“When I talked to Bennett he didn’t have anything promising for us,” he says, folding the rest of the money back into the pocket of his jeans. “Might be here a while— better pick up the basics on our way back.”

As they get up to leave, Marcus grabs a scattering of butter packets from the table. By the time they reach the truck and he dumps them into the cupholder, Tomas can see that the sharp, crisp corners of the gold foil have gone rounded and smooth, the contents turning warm and soft in the palm of Marcus’s hand. 

\- - -

Tomas didn’t even realize how well he knew his local supermarket until he couldn’t go there anymore. Now every new grocery store feels like stepping into the Twilight Zone, his years of autopilot completely useless, half his time spent awkwardly standing in the center aisle and craning his neck to read all the different-shaped signs in their unfamiliar fonts. As a lonely single priest he had his old trip down to a memorized speedrun, a man of simple, consistent needs that he knew how to fit perfectly into his reusable grocery bags. Now he doesn’t even have the bags. Funny how it’s the oddest little facets of his former life that he seems to miss the most.

“Allowance is running a bit thin.” Marcus grabs a basket at the door, hooking it over his arm so he can maintain control over what goes into it. “No lollies today, poppet.”

Tomas gives a theatrical huff. “You are no fun.”

“Take it up with our gracious benefactor.” 

The really strange thing is, for as much as Tomas gets turned around in new supermarkets, Marcus seems to be at home in every single one they visit. It doesn’t matter where they are, whatever region of the country, he always seems to know exactly where everything is already, beelining from aisle to aisle and grabbing his items off the shelf without even slowing down as he passes by. It’s like he’s been on the road so long that he’s visited every possible variation of grocery store and consolidated all of that knowledge into a perfectly-calibrated internal supermarket compass. If Marcus knows what he’s going in for, he knows how to get there. 

They’ve only been on the road together for a few months, but Tomas is already learning what Marcus considers The Basics: eggs, peanut butter, a few loaves of Wonder bread— talk about a man with simple, consistent needs. Tomas trails along behind him, hands in his pockets and eyes on the floor, his mind elsewhere. He’s so used to the nonstop pace that they almost collide when Marcus pauses at the juncture between two aisles, his body turned one way but his head turned another as if he just heard someone call his name. Tomas looks up from the floor just as Marcus rounds on him with a look in his eyes like he’s about to suggest something totally wild. 

“Do you like bananas?”

\- - -

An afternoon trip to the laundromat leads to both of them switching into their comfort clothes when they get back for the night, Tomas emerging from the bathroom in his freshly-washed sweats and a faded Cubs t-shirt, Marcus in drawstring pants and a black tank top that fits his lean torso like a glove. Then Marcus takes his radio and sets it up on the counter, cranking the music nice and loud before he gets to work scrubbing out the skillet that’s been bumping around in a box in the bed of the truck with the rest of their cooking gear. Tomas ambles into the kitchen after him, scooting around to get to the fridge and tug it open. 

“You want a beer?” he asks, already grabbing one for himself.

Marcus glances over in mild surprise. It’s the same flicker of uncertainty that Tomas saw when he first suggested buying the beer back at the grocery store, Marcus pausing in the middle of the aisle as if struck all over again by the realization that such a thing is even possible. Then, as before, his expression turns endearingly conspiratorial, his head bobbing in impish agreement.

“Yeah, all right.” 

Tomas figured a twelve-pack of Modelo Especial would be more than enough to get the two of them through the night. He squeezed the first half-dozen bottles into their little fridge as soon as they got back, glass still faintly chilled from the supermarket cooler and now fully rejuvenated, the bottlenecks satisfyingly cold to the touch as Tomas retrieves a pair and nudges the fridge door shut with his hip. He uses the key to the truck to pop the cap off the first one, passing it to Marcus before he uncaps his own and raises it in a toast. 

“ _Salud_.”

Marcus hoists his bottle aloft. 

“Cheers.” 

Two beers later he’s giddy and loud, padding barefoot around the kitchen and singing along with the music in a deep baritone that Tomas finds especially pleasing when it’s pitched the full octave down from the singer on the radio, Marcus rumbling out a bass line alongside the Ronettes— _The night we met, I knew I needed you so_ — just like the grocery stores, somehow he seems to know every word to every song. He even knows some of them well enough to translate into Spanish on the fly, using the instrumental breaks to puzzle out the best ways to make everything rhyme, all while Tomas watches in amazement and wonders how he ever did without this in his life. 

By now the whole suite smells like bacon. Once that’s done sizzling, it goes together with the peanut butter and bananas to make a particular type of fried sandwich that Marcus refers to as: the Elvis. There’s a break in the singing as Marcus looks over at Tomas, pointing at him with the greasy spatula. 

“Crispy or chewy?”

Tomas considers. “Crispy.”

Marcus grins. “Wrong.” 

He fries the sandwiches in the butter he took from the diner. In the time it takes for the first side of the bread to turn golden brown, he manages to fold one of the foil wrappers into a tiny origami crane, carefully setting it beside the stove before he does the flip. Then, while the other side finishes cooking, Marcus takes the little bird and reaches out to gently nestle it into the mouth of the bottle in Tomas’s hand, a delicate placement that leaves it suspended there by the neck and tail. Pointing solemnly at the figure, Marcus intones, “That one’s Elvis,” before returning his attention to his work with the skillet. Tomas stares at the little gold crane, its little gold head peeking out over the torn gold foil around the neck of the bottle. For some reason he can’t quite bring himself to take it out again. The last quarter of the beer gets left unfinished on the counter, the crane watching over the transition as they switch off the radio and move over to the pocket-sized dining table to eat. Marcus brings the plates. Tomas brings two more beers. 

The Elvis is everything that Marcus promised and more. In fact it might be one of the best things Tomas has ever eaten in his life, and that’s not just because the combination of peanut butter and bacon is a genuine revelation. No, the real savor of the meal comes from the look on Marcus’s face every time Tomas tells him it’s good, it’s _so good_ — Marcus laughing and averting his eyes, equal parts flustered and pleased, his mouth visibly struggling not to split into too wide of a grin. By the time he’s finished his third beer he has to bite down on his bottom lip to hold it at bay, which only makes him look even more flustered and pleased than he did before. Tomas can’t get enough of it, his appreciation growing increasingly boisterous and enthusiastic until Marcus finally cracks and has to cover his mouth with his hand, completely undone by the praise. 

In the end they both clean their plates, Marcus running his finger around in the grease to get the last few crumbs on his before he moves to take it back to the kitchen. Tomas beats him to the punch, jumping up and snatching it away to stack with his own.

“Oh, no, no,” he scolds. “Where I grew up, the cook never does the dishes.” 

“Is that so?” Marcus regards him with a tipsy smile. “Abuela taught you well.” 

“Yes, she did,” Tomas smiles back. “Now this is the part where she would go sit in her rocking chair.”

“Hmm,” Marcus glances over towards the portion of the suite that functions as a living room. “Does a shabby little sofa count?”

The dishes go fast— a skillet, a spatula, two empty plates— once they’re settled in the drying rack, Tomas wipes his hands and ambles over to the fridge, where he had the foresight to restock the bottles as the space became available. Now he draws one out, deems it sufficiently chilled, and turns over his shoulder to waggle it at Marcus in invitation.

_“Una más?”_

Thoroughly sprawled over his half of the couch, Marcus exhales a soft puff of laughter at the proposal, then gestures encouragingly for Tomas to bring it over.

“All right, yeah, why not?”

Tomas cracks both bottles open in the kitchen and leaves the caps on the counter, picking his way over towards Marcus like he’s creeping across thin ice, each step a precarious gamble. When he arrives he lingers on his feet just long enough to hand over Marcus’s beer before he plops onto the couch beside him, his bottle raised and the open mouth turned towards Marcus in expectation. Marcus answers with his own, the two bottles meeting with a resounding clink before retreating towards the mouths of their respective bearers for a matched set of long, heavy pulls. 

Marcus comes up for air first, catching his breath in a woozy huff. Tomas follows shortly after, sitting forward with a vigorous sigh to prop his elbows on his knees. When he looks over he sees Marcus resting the cold bottle against his flushed temple, his eyes closed and his mouth curled in wobbly contentment. In the dim light all the sharp angles of his face have been gentled and calmed. Tomas thinks, in a way, that he looks quite lovely. Peace looks good on him. It compels Tomas to speak low, almost as though trying not to wake a sleepwalker. 

“Marcus,” he calls, _sotto voce_. “How are you feeling?”

Stirring from his reverie, Marcus cracks one eye open to peer at him with a faint smile. 

“I can’t tell if the room is spinning,” he says, “or if it’s just my head.”

“Ah,” Tomas taps his chin. “Let me see about that.” 

At this point he’s feeling quite a bit giddy and loud himself, and on a foolish impulse he launches into a vigorous comical pantomime of surveying their surroundings, swinging his head back and forth and up and down on a ridiculous swivel. In the next instant Marcus bursts out laughing with a suddenness that seems to surprise even him, one arm hugged protectively over his quaking belly while Tomas examines the ceiling, the floor, and all four corners with a pronounced theatrical squint. At last he turns back to Marcus with a shrug. 

“Seems pretty steady to me,” he says, then leans in for a clandestine whisper. “It must be your head.” 

“Oof, that’s what I thought,” Marcus chuckles, nuzzling against the bottle, the sweat on the glass mingling with his own. “Guess I’m not used to all this... _debauchery_.”

The word makes both of them giggle like two little kids saying their very first swear, thrilled and scandalized in equal measure by their own boldness. 

“I wonder—” Tomas starts to say, but it gets cut off by another bout of giggles before he’s able to try again, speaking in bursts between shuddery breaths. “I wonder— if this is what St. Paul meant— when he wrote to the Ephesians.”

“Oh, yeah, you haven’t heard that translation?” Marcus picks up the citation with glee. “ _Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to fried peanut butter sandwiches._ ”

That only makes them laugh harder, both of them rocking forward on the couch and barely able to hold on to their sloshing beers. Then Tomas manages to squeak out, “Hmm, must be the New _New_ King James Version” and it’s all over, the pair of them howling together in giddy delight until Marcus finally splinters into a dizzy wheeze, having reached the absolute limit of his merriment. In the next breath he slouches down to rest his elbows on his knees, his eyes squeezed shut and his head bowed so he can press the cool bottle back against his temple, his mouth open and panting for air. Guess the spinning sensation isn’t so pleasant this time. 

_That’s right_ — 

All at once Tomas remembers another conversation they once had when Marcus was drunk, the pair of them sitting together in the last pew on the day he lost his collar. _Forty-one years of sobriety, more or less_. If that’s true then it’s no wonder he’s so wobbly after four beers. Tomas is definitely feeling the buzz, but after years of indulging in weekend six-packs his tolerance is a bit more advanced. Even so, he’s still drunk enough to blurt out the question as soon as it pops into his head.

“So you really didn’t drink?” he asks. “Before?”

For a long beat Marcus doesn’t respond at all, giving Tomas just enough time to wonder if he’s stumbled over the line and gone too far. Then Marcus takes the bottle away from his temple so he can take another drink, finishing with a cough before he hauls himself up off his elbows. It’s clearly not a viable option for him to remain sitting upright, so instead he tips all the way back into the couch cushions, his eyes heavy and half-lidded but determined to be awake.

“Mmm— not much,” he answers, using the heel of one hand to scrub at each eye in turn. “And not often.” 

Tomas groans and plucks self-consciously at the base of his throat. “What you must think of me.” 

Without hesitation Marcus reaches over to clap that same hand over Tomas’s thigh, giving him two quick pats of reassurance before he withdraws to take another drink.

“Ah, don’t be too hard on yourself,” he sighs, settling back with both hands wrapped around the bottle in his lap. “For me it was... more that I needed a reason not to do it.” He purses his lips in a shrug. “The collar was the perfect excuse.”

The admission is a door left half ajar and Tomas knows an invitation when he sees one. He takes another steadying gulp of his beer before gingerly placing his hand against the door to push, his voice low and quiet. 

“And, ah… why did you need a reason?”

Marcus gives a rough exhale, staring at his thumbnail as it picks at the label on his bottle.

“I dunno,” he huffs. “I guess— I guess I was always afraid I’d be a mean drunk.” 

He sounds so abashed when he says it, as if the mere suggestion that he could be capable of such a thing is tantamount to a full-blown confession. Meanwhile Tomas can hardly imagine that such a thing is even _possible_. He knows that Marcus can be harsh— he can be downright cold if he thinks that’s what needs to be done— but the thought of Marcus actually being _mean_ just seems absurd. For as much as Marcus tries to portray himself as a surly old bear, Tomas has absolute faith that there isn’t a genuine mean bone in his body, not even if he drank his way through all the bars in Chicago. He’s harsh, he’s cold, but above and beyond any of that, he’s _kind_. Tomas wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t true.

Unfortunately he’s about four beers too deep to even begin to try and express that sentiment right now. The best he can do is muster up a bright smile and reach over to give Marcus a reciprocal pat on the knee, his tone as warm and reassuring as he can manage.

“Well,” he says. “For the record, I think you are a very nice drunk.”

He wants to say, _You laugh more when you’re drunk_. He wants to say, _I like it when you laugh_. He wants to say, _I wish I could make you laugh like this every day_. But he holds his tongue, and in the end it’s for the best. Marcus looks like he’s had about all he can handle, his face drawn and pale as he sits forward with his beer bottle clutched between his knees.

“That’s good to hear,” he says, his voice strained. He takes a shaky gulp from his drink before he adds, “My parents certainly weren’t.” 

Tomas pauses, his beer halfway to his mouth. The bottle sinks down again untouched as he turns to find Marcus staring ahead with huge, haunted eyes, the next words coming out of him in a ragged whisper.

“They were terrors.”

Immediately Tomas reaches for Marcus’s knee again, not for a quick pat this time but to grab and hold, fastening himself on as an anchor. Marcus gives a curt nod of acknowledgment, both hands clenched around his beer bottle and his teeth grinding like exposed rims on a gravel road. 

“Always fighting. Always drunk.” He scrubs a wrist under his nose, his eyes wet and blazing. “They stank of it, the both of them. It was in their breath, their clothes, their— their sweat. I can’t remember a time when they didn’t smell like a lit match would send them up in smoke. They were both drunk when he—”

The words cut off as abruptly as if he’s been yanked by the collar, Marcus barely able to snatch his tongue back from the convulsive snap of his teeth. Tomas gives a sympathetic wince, his grip tightening on Marcus’s knee, his body leaned in and angled towards him as if to maximize the projection of his support. He can see Marcus struggling to get through it, but it’s like the secret has its hands and feet braced in the doorway of his mouth and no matter how hard Marcus pushes and shoves, he can’t manage to force it out. He’s choking on it.

“He had— he had a—”

While the beer bottle dangles forgotten in his left hand, Marcus grasps an unseen weapon in his right, his fist clenched so tight that the cords in his forearm stand out like piano wire under the skin. In the back of his mind Tomas hears the demon’s voice again, the woman’s voice— _It wasn’t such a big hammer, I suppose, but he was so strong_ — oh, how badly he’d wanted that to be a lie. 

“I’m here, Marcus,” he whispers, fighting to keep his voice level. “It’s all right, I’m here.” 

Marcus is shaking now, his fist raised and his stare fixed on the middle distance while his breathing grows increasingly labored. He’s still trying, but Tomas can see now that it’s a losing battle. He can’t even form the words anymore, his teeth clenched and bared in helpless anguish, his chest heaving like a furnace bellows. Tomas feels a twinge of alarm, his sympathy curdling into concern, the need to hear this confession outweighed by the toll the confession is clearly taking. He’s about to speak up, to tell Marcus to stop, to let it go—

—but all at once Marcus wrenches out of it with a fractured gasp, his right arm dropping abruptly to his side and his beer bottle dropping to the floor. It bounces and rolls away lopsided, trailing a dark, wet arc across the carpet as Marcus slumps forward with his face in his hands, completely spent. Tomas turns aside just long enough to set his own bottle on the coffee table, leaving both hands free to reach towards Marcus in comfort, one placed on his knee and the other on his shuddering back, their heads bowed together as if in prayer.

“It’s all right,” Tomas whispers fiercely. “I’m still here, Marcus. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Marcus nods rapidly, his face still hidden in his hands, his breathing shallow and uneven. It’s clear that’s the only answer he can manage right now, but it’s the only answer Tomas needed— he just wanted to make sure that Marcus heard what he said. All he can do now is hope that Marcus knows how much he means it. After that it’s radio silence, Marcus shivering and panting while Tomas rubs small, clockwise circles in the space between his shoulder blades, coaxing him by example to take slow, deep breaths. He’s forgotten all about the rest of his beer. It will sit on the coffee table for the rest of the night, waiting to be poured down the kitchen sink in the morning. 

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, huddled together in the middle of the sofa in the corner of a room in the middle of nowhere. Bit by bit the breathing slows and the shuddering fades, Marcus settling under Tomas’s touch, the remnants of the agonizing effort gradually draining out of his system. At last he sits up and takes his hands away from his face, drawing in a sharp, bracing inhale that he releases in a long, steady sigh, his eyes wet but clear. He looks as tired as Tomas has ever seen him, but even so there’s still a hint of a weary smile as he turns to meet Tomas’s gaze, offering him an apologetic shake of his head. Tomas shakes his head, too.

“It’s all right,” he says again. He’ll say it a thousand times if that’s what it takes for Marcus to hear it. 

Although Marcus nods in acknowledgment, there’s a distance in his expression that speaks only of regret, his touch heavy and sad as he reaches down to cover Tomas’s hand where it’s still braced on his knee. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives the hand a firm, deliberate squeeze. Tomas squeezes back. It’s so quiet. They’re sitting close enough that Tomas is almost overwhelmed with the smell of him, clean and crisp and masculine— he has to hurry to remind himself that it’s only an echo, the ghost of the body wash lingering on his own skin.

\- - -

It’s still dark outside when Tomas wakes up in an unfamiliar room. He jumps right past the popcorn ceiling and the light, scratchy blanket— this time the first thing to enter his awareness is the rapid, ragged breathing of someone suffering nearby. When he scrambles to turn and look, he sees Marcus shivering in the second bed, curled up and facing the wall. Tomas is already sitting up and throwing back his blanket before he even makes the conscious decision to move. 

“Marcus?”

He’s taken aback by the way Marcus goes suddenly, dreadfully still— it’s the uncanny stillness of a prey animal when it senses danger nearby, the body braced for imminent harm. His reedy whisper is barely audible.

“Tomas?”

“Yes,” Tomas assures him. “Marcus, it’s me.”

Their beds are separated by a narrow aisle of carpeting not unlike the nave of a church. Tomas scurries across the gap to perch worriedly on the edge of Marcus’s mattress, crouching on his knees beside him. Marcus isn’t even under the blankets, he’s huddled on top of them like a dog sleeping at the foot of the bed, his arms hugged around his belly and his legs drawn up in a defensive ball. Once he confirms it’s Tomas he stops fighting it and starts shivering again, his teeth clenched hard to keep from chattering. 

“What is it?” Tomas asks, wanting more than anything to help. “What’s wrong?”

Anxious to calm him, he lays a hand on Marcus’s shoulder in an attempt to steady his trembling. He has to catch his breath when Marcus immediately snakes up his own hand to grab hold, clumsily crushing Tomas’s fingers in his fist and clinging to him like his life depends on it. From there he manages to spit out a string of words like a mouthful of broken glass.

“He had a hammer.” 

Tomas understands in an instant, his head thrown back on sheer reflex to raise his eyes heavenward for strength. 

_God, help me._

In the next instant he twists his hand in Marcus’s grip, tugging out of his fist so he can twine their fingers together instead. Bowing his head, he leans down to angle his mouth over Marcus’s shoulder, making sure that he hears every word.

“I’m here with you, Marcus. I’m here.” 

Marcus is staring at the wall, his throat audibly strangled at the cusp of a monstrous sob that he won’t— or simply can’t— let go. What he does manage to choke out sounds like the final gasps of a drowning man.

“It was her head, Tomas,” he rasps. “He hit her in the head— the sound that she made— like a kicked dog—”

The sob finally rips out of him, his body racked with the force of his grief, his free hand clapped over his mouth too late to stifle anything except the aftershocks. 

Tomas can’t get to him fast enough. 

Before he knows it he’s crawling down onto the bed behind him, crowding his chest against Marcus’s back and wrapping his body around him like a suit of armor. It’s a heedless bull rush through a whole gauntlet of boundaries but he can’t stop himself— all he can think about is getting Marcus into his arms as soon as possible, to hold him fast and make sure he knows he’s not alone. By the time his brain catches up with his body, it’s already done. There’s a split-second of dread as he waits for Marcus to snap at him to _get off_ , but instead Marcus fumbles to cover Tomas’s arms with his own, squeezing hard in an unmistakable plea for him to hold on tighter. Tomas doesn’t need to be asked twice. He crushes Marcus against him with all his strength, his forehead pressed to the back of Marcus’s skull and his nose and mouth pressed to the nape of his neck, the skin there so feverishly hot that it’s like kissing a lit coal. 

“I yelled for him to stop,” Marcus pants, the truth pierced and now pouring out of him in an uncontrollable rush. “But he just hit her again. Her brains— her brains were all over the floor. And when she opened her mouth to scream, nothing came out but blood—”

He gasps and digs his fingernails into Tomas’s forearms while Tomas tightens his body into a fist around him, tethering Marcus down like he’s a house in a hurricane, rattling right at the cusp of being yanked away by some massive, unseen force and torn to pieces in the air. All Tomas can do is hold on to him so he’s doing it as hard as he can, gathering Marcus against him and turning his back to the wind in a desperate attempt to shield him until the storm passes. He can feel they’re approaching the breaking point— Marcus arches and shudders, his breath coming faster and faster— all at once he sucks in a harsh, decisive lungful of air as if he’s about to dive under and swim straight down, his body going rigid with the effort.

“That’s when I took his poaching rifle off the back of the door,” he grits out. “And I shot him.” 

In the stunned, blistering silence that follows, the only thing that Tomas can hear in the back of his mind are the very first words of the very first crumb that Marcus ever gave him: _When I was seven._

It’s so quiet. They’ve reached the eye of the hurricane now, past the point of platitudes or reassurances, past the point of anything Tomas has words for. Speechless in every sense, he doesn’t resist when Marcus stirs and turns over in his embrace, shifting within the boundary of his arms until they’re lying face to face. In the darkness of the witching hour, Marcus’s wild, pale eyes seem to shine like a nocturnal animal’s.

“He didn’t go easy,” Marcus breathes. “He put his hands on me.”

Slow and deliberate, he brings his right hand up in the space between their bodies and places it at the base of Tomas’s throat, his fingertips pressing into the carotid artery. Tomas makes no move to stop him. He just holds that burning stare with his own, refusing to look away. 

“He wanted to take me with him, I could see it in his eyes,” Marcus hisses. “That would have really been something, wouldn’t it— the whole family devouring itself like a bloody ouroboros.” 

When Tomas fails to flinch or pull away from the horror, Marcus bares his teeth and tightens his grip, putting just enough pressure behind his hand to make it hurt. Tomas might almost be afraid if it didn’t make him so sad.

“He would have done it, too,” Marcus growls, forcing the last of his strength into his trembling grasp. “Only I shot him in the throat and that finished him off before he could finish me.” 

His furious glare sweeps back and forth over Tomas’s face, feverishly hunting for any sign of fear or disgust. Tomas lets him look, watching as the fire in Marcus’s eyes starts to flicker and dim, his expression and his grip gradually going slack as he realizes that Tomas feels no such thing. Calm and careful, Tomas brings his own hand up between them, not to take Marcus’s hand off his neck but to reach out and gently touch Marcus’s face instead, steering their gazes back together.

“Thank God for that,” he says, looking right into Marcus’s eyes as he says it. “I would have been lost without you.” 

Marcus catches his breath, the sound wet and choked. After a long beat of hesitation, the hand on Tomas’s throat begins to creep timidly upwards, his fingertips stepping over the jawline one by one until he can settle his palm against Tomas’s scratchy cheek. Tomas smiles in welcome, using his thumb to wipe away a tear on the bridge of Marcus’s nose. By unspoken agreement they lean in together at the same moment, their heads bowed until their foreheads touch and they’re sharing the same breath. 

“Thank you,” Tomas whispers. “Thank you for telling me.” 

“God,” Marcus makes a clipped sound, his eyes screwed shut. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Marcus—”

“Sorry you had to hear it. That you’ll have to go on hearing it.” 

“That’s enough,” Tomas shushes him. “We are partners. That’s what I’m here for.” He closes his eyes too, his voice sinking to a low murmur. “I’m only sorry that you had to go through it.” 

“Don’t be,” Marcus sighs. Tomas can hear the exhaustion in his voice, but more than that, he hears relief. “It was a long time ago. I’m here now.” 

By way of emphasis he nuzzles his forehead against Tomas’s, almost as if to reassure them both that it’s true. For a long time they breathe together in the dark, the shared rhythm drifting lower and lower until at last Marcus drops down to a deep, steady pace, his body relaxing in Tomas’s arms, his face tucked into the hollow of Tomas’s throat. He doesn’t smell like the body wash anymore. He smells like Marcus. He smells like home. 

Tomas doesn’t even bother trying to go back to sleep. He knows it’s already too late. From the second he opens his eyes he’s wide awake, full stop. The only question is what he’s going to do about it. The answer, this time, is refreshingly simple. He’s going to lie here and run his fingers through Marcus Keane’s hair for the rest of the night, however long that may be, in case there’s even the slightest chance that it might help him sleep more soundly. He won’t stop until the sun comes up.

_end.


End file.
